


A Record of Sorts

by spinsterclaire



Series: For Imagine Claire and Jamie [4]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Diana Gabaldon, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, SORT OF followed the prompt...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5615392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsterclaire/pseuds/spinsterclaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: In Paris, Jamie is struggling to write with his tired, scarred hand. Claire volunteers to help write the letters he dictates, but that leaves his hands free to wander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Record of Sorts

At the sound of a knock, Jamie allowed himself a moment’s respite. His hand throbbed, aching from a morning spent with quill and ink, and he shook the stiffness from his joints. He sighed, wincing as his bones shifted, then cracked.

“Aye. Come in."

It’d be Claire, surely, arriving with her own copies of the documents—and maddeningly indisposed by the hour she’d spent writing them. He’d been hesitant to accept her aid, but then again, his wife could never be swayed when it came to matters of his health…

**~**

“Jamie,” she had prodded earlier, “you’ve nearly thirty more to go. I know it's a quite a lot to ask, but will you set aside your bloody pride for _once_? Let me help.”

She had shuffled through the pile of half-written rejects—each one ripped or crumpled in a burst of fury—until she'd emerged at last with a completed page. Using it as a template, she quickly mirrored its contents in the margins without the slightest difficulty.  

“See?” she said. “I’ve forged handwriting often enough. _Quite_ the expert in my girlhood, if I do say so myself. No one will ever be the wiser.”

Jamie paused, torn. Thirty more to go, yes, and then a meeting with his cousin after that...He'd rather gouge his eyes with the fine-tipped quill.

Taking his silence for consent, Claire had gleefully pecked his cheek and swiveled on her heel. She marched out of the room, chin up and mind set, like a soldier armed with ink.        

**~**

Claire stood in front of him now, equally determined as she'd been an hour before. She placed the copied letters beside their originals, welcoming comparison.

“Et—voila!” she announced triumphantly. And rightly so, too. Despite his embarrassment, even Jamie had to admit they were perfect imitations. The y’s were impressively flourished, the r’s like chicken scratch, and if Jamie’s memory were less sharp he might have thought himself their author.

Reluctantly amused, he snorted and shook his head.

“I’m married to a deviant." This underwhelming reaction was met with his wife’s tapping foot and narrowed eyes.

“A bad thing, is it?” Claire asked, challenging him. He laughed.

“Weel, if ye must know, it gives me a fierce headache from time to time…” He ducked beneath her swatting palm, a practiced maneuver he’d spent the last year mastering. “But aye, Sassenach—it’s not without its charms. I'll stand a bit of wickedness if it means ye'll wear that dress more often.”  

He eyed her backside, and she smiled, pleased.

“I think these might _also_ be of interest, then,” she said, offering a second sheaf of papers. These differed noticeably from the others though, written in a nurse’s careful hand and bearing no resemblance to Jamie’s sloppy penmanship. Ranks of small, precise letters paraded down the pages. A list of locations, holding no rhyme or rhythm, but spanning randomly from north to south and east to west like a crude road map. Many bore checks beside their names, all glaringly boastful amongst the ones without.

“Sassenach," Jamie began, puzzled by the scribblings, "why have ye given me a log of every tavern, city, and river between here and Scotland?”

He leaned closer.

“‘Louise de Rohan’s carriage, Mrs. Fitz’s broom closet, the kitchen table at Lallybroch…’” Jamie read aloud, each place increasingly unrelated to the last. “Angus Mohr’s tent, the springs beneath St. Anne’s…” He paused, considering. “Sassenach, I’ve no’ been in that godforsaken abbey since — _Oh_.”

Understanding came as a twitch in the groin. The room swam before his eyes, smoking with a heat that left lust straining at his trousers.

“It’s a record of sorts,” his wife explained, one eyebrow raised in mischief. “Of all the places we...”

“Aye, Sassenach, I ken what yer about.” His palms were sweating now, limbs tingling with the echo of satisfaction: mouth on mouth, skin on skin. And beneath this growing desire? A certain sense of pride for having achieved such a geographically vast—and often logistically challenging—feat.

“Given your sea sickness, I'm afraid #34's a bit of a pipe dream. But you'll notice there's no check mark for 'Jared's study'..." His wife took a step forward, face lit like a candle.

“Mmm,” he hummed, trying to resist the way her voice traveled up his arms, goosebumps rising. _Ye’ve work to do, ye bawheed._

“Just a wide…open…and unticked box…” Claire continued, achingly expectant.

Oh, he’d take care of _that_ presently—and have her legs wide and open, and what was between them hardly “unticked." He bit his tongue, hearing quill and ink admonish him silently from Jared’s desk. Sensing his hesitance, his wife’s mouth quirked.

“I’ve helped you with your work, after all. It’s only fair that you return the favor, hm?”

Jamie choked on the mental images flitting through his mind, half-shamed by the childish cries ringing from the Parisian streets.

“Have ye no’ heard the saying, ‘An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind’, Sassenach? It’s a sound piece of wisdom.”

“It’s been mentioned once or twice,“ she quipped. “But I hardly think it matters. I’m not sure I need my eyes for what I have in mind.”

“That so?” Jamie swallowed. “And what exactly _do_ ye have in mind, Sassenach? I mean to ensure my safety, aye? You being a criminal forgeress and such.”

His wife’s eyes twinkled, and a hand teased the place where a pale strip of flesh winked from her neckline. Months into pregnancy, she’d become all curves and soft lines, irresistibly rosied and incandescent. It was all he could do to keep his wits about him.

“Ahhh,” she purred. “That’s what this is for.” She procured yet another leaf from the valley of her breasts, fingers brushing his as she deposited the document into his palm.

The words danced like flames, leaping off the parchment and straight to his…

“All anatomically correct, I might add." she said, flushed with victory and anticipation. “And with no shortage of detail.”

He kept reading, unable to look away.

“Well?” Claire leaned back against the desk, lifting her skirts to expose a stretch of vulnerable thigh. A growl rumbled in Jamie’s throat, and he stood abruptly from his seat.

They all but leapt on each other, bodies crashing and lips greedy. Claire fastened her teeth onto Jamie’s neck, pinking him with gentle nips that spread up and along his jawline. He hoped he'd bear the marks of them tomorrow.

“Sassenach,” he croaked, utterly breathless, “it’s a good thing yer not a writer.” She continued kissing him, tongue moving to lick and suckle his ear lobes. “Ye'd rob every man, woman, and beast of their innocence. There'd no be a place in all the world left unchristened.”

Claire moaned into his mouth, breaking quickly away to drop to her knees. Deft fingers moved to the front of his trousers, tugging and pulling with a fervency that matched his own. Finally freed, Jamie felt her take him into her mouth, and groaned.

“On second thought…” he gasped, head thrown back. “Perhaps I’ll buy ye a printing press.”


End file.
